Tuned Out

by Keith A Pearson

  By the time we return to Nelson Close, I feel like the most contented man alive. This may not be the life I was supposed to lead, but it’s slowly becoming a life I’m happy to live.

  “Fancy a cuppa?” Jan asks, as we exit the car.

  “I’d love one.”

  We enter the house and pop our heads around the lounge door. George is engrossed in a black and white movie and Alice is concentrating on a cross stitch.

  “We’re just about to have a cuppa. Would you like one?”

  “Please, sweetheart,” Alice smiles.

  George grunts an affirmative reply.

  As glad as I am our relationship is now in the open, I have mixed feelings about moving out. Having lived on my own for the past few years, I’d forgotten what it’s like to live as part of a family. Maybe if I’d moved back home when Dad originally suggested it, I might not be here now. Then again, I’d never have met Jan.

  There’s a knock at the front door.

  “I’ll get it,” Jan chirps.

  “If it’s those kids messing around again,” George grumbles. “I’ll give them all a slap round the ear.”

  “I’m not sure their parents would approve,” I remark. “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “If the local copper catches them, they’ll get a damn sight more than that, I can tell you.”

  It seems corporal punishment is still alive and well.

  Jan returns; her arms folded and demeanour frosty.

  “It’s for you, Toby,” she snaps.

  “Right, err …”

  “There’s some young woman called Gwen on the doorstep. Apparently, she’s desperate to see you.”

  Oh, shit.

  35.

  Avoiding eye contact with Alice and George, I spin on my heels. It would have been preferable if Jan stayed in the lounge with her parents but she’s right at my shoulder as I barrel through the hallway and open the front door.

  “Gwen? What are you … oh, Christ.”

  There are two marked differences to her appearance from the last time I saw her. Both, I suspect, are courtesy of Vernon.

  Her long red coat is unbuttoned — offering a clear view of the small bump in her tummy — but it’s the purple bruise below her left eye which is even more striking. It’s then I notice the small suitcase on the floor.

  “What … what’s going on?”

  “I’ve left him,” she gulps. “Like you said I should.”

  The reason for Jan’s angst becomes obvious. An attractive woman turns up at the doorstep; stating she’s leaving her husband on my advice. Admittedly, it doesn’t look good. I turn to Jan and offer an explanation.

  “Remember the nutjob who turned up here and tried to kill me?”

  “Of course I do,” she replies flatly. “What’s he got to do with anything?”

  “Gwen is his wife … the woman I tried to help.”

  Realisation dawns.

  “Ohh.”

  I turn back to Gwen.

  “What happened to your eye?”

  “What do you think? We had a row and the pig punched me.”

  “Oh, my Lord,” Jan gasps. “Your husband punched you?”

  “He’s got a temper,” Gwen shrugs.

  “But you’re pregnant. What kind of man punches a pregnant woman?”

  “You ain’t met my Vernon.”

  “Unfortunately, I have, although we were never formally introduced.”

  Now I’ve allayed Jan’s concerns, I need to deal with the problem before me. And I’d rather not do that within earshot of George and Alice.

  “We should have a chat, Gwen. Come with me.”

  I grab her suitcase and nod at Jan to suggest she should join us. After a brief battle with the gates, we convene in the caravan.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea, Gwen?” Jan asks.

  “Please, darlin’. That’d be smashing.”

  Gwen sits down at the table and I sit opposite, while Jan puts a pan of water on.

  “How far gone are you?”

  “Nine weeks.”

  “And where are you living?”

  “The council gave us a little house in Birchett Road. It’s better than Cumberland Street but it ain’t no palace.”

  “Right.”

  I nod slowly to buy time. The repercussions from Gwen’s appearance haven’t fully sunk in and I need to carefully consider what I say to her next.

  She has other ideas and breaks the silence.

  “You said you might be able to help me out with a few quid.”

  “Um, yes. I did.”

  “I need to get away from him.”

  “But where will you go?”

  “Like you said: London. He won’t find me there.”

  If Gwen had told me this three months ago I’d currently be jumping for joy — but that was then. Now, her change of heart has left me with a dilemma of unimaginable magnitude as any decision will ultimately determine if I remain in the past or if I leave for the future. There is no halfway compromise, no soft option, and no opportunity to change my mind.

  I glance across at Jan; busy preparing tea. My beautiful Jan — the woman I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with. My twin flame.

  “Listen, Gwen. Perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to do anything hasty.”

  “I ain’t doing nothin’ hasty. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since we had that chat.”

  “But, the baby.”

  “Don’t you think I ain’t thought about the baby? It’s one of the reasons I need to leave.”

  “I’m not with you.”

  “Vernon’s temper is gettin’ worse cos I’m not comfortable with him havin’ his … marital rights. I’m scared he’ll do something to me or the baby.”

  This is bad. This is really bad.

  “What will you do for money when you get to London?”

  “I ain’t sure. Maybe I can get a job in a pub or somethin’.”

  “And when the baby is born?”

  “I ain’t thought that far ahead but I’ve got a few months to sort it. All I know is I can’t stay with Vernon.”

  Whether she wants to stay with Vernon or not isn’t the issue — it’s whether I want to stay with Jan. If I help Gwen and she disappears from Vernon’s life, he’ll revert to his miserable existence and the timeline will reset. I’ll be back where I started.

  Is that what I want?

  “Here you are,” Jan says softly, as she passes Gwen a cup of tea.

  Our eyes meet and in that moment I can read her thoughts: she’s grateful we have what Gwen doesn’t — a perfect relationship built on love, respect, and mutual attraction. Will I ever find that with another woman? Am I prepared to forsake my family, my friends, and the life I had, to stay here with Jan?

  My head and heart commence battle, but it’s a brief, futile fight — there was only ever going to be one victor.

  “Listen, Gwen. This might sound contrary to what I said before, but maybe you need to be more patient with Vernon.”

  “Eh? What you talkin’ about?”

  “He’s got anger issues, yes, but you’re carrying his child, and that changes the situation. That child deserves to know his or her father.”

  “Even if that father is a drunken thug?”

  “Well … um, had you thought about counselling? If Vernon can get a handle on his temper, he could change his ways.”

  “And in the meantime?” Jan intervenes. “Is Gwen supposed to risk her safety, and the baby’s?”

  Her caring nature is one of the many reasons I fell in love with Jan, but I fear it’s about to work against me.

  “Okay, maybe Gwen could go to the police and file a complaint then. That way, at least Vernon would have to behave himself or risk charges.”

  “The police?” Jan snorts. “What goes on in a marriage isn’t a police matter.”

  “I ain’t going to the police,” Gwen confirms. “I just wanna get away from him, and you said you’d help me.”

  “Yes, I know what
I said, Gwen, but circumstances have changed, and I don’t have any spare cash.”

  “How much do you need?” Jan asks.

  “I ain’t even got enough for a train ticket, let alone a room. I need at least twenty quid.”

  “Fine. If you give me a few minutes, I’ll nip up to my room.”

  “What?” I blurt. “You’re going to give her money?”

  “I’ve been saving up for a rainy day, and I think I’ve got close to thirty pounds now. It’s not my rainy day but it’s certainly Gwen’s.”

  Jan makes for the door.

  “Wait!”

  She spins around.

  “What is it, Toby?”

  “This is not our problem and I forbid you to lend her any money.”

  Her eyes narrow.

  “Oh, do you now?”

  The tone implies a challenge rather than a question. Knowing how wide Jan’s stubborn streak is, I don’t fancy my chances of winning the argument. I need to deal with the problem itself, rather than arguing Jan’s potentially catastrophic solution.

  “I’d like you to leave please, Gwen. We can’t help you.”

  “But …”

  “I’ll give you ten seconds to leave, otherwise I’ll go find Vernon and bring him here.”

  Her face turns ashen white.

  “I’m … I just need …” she pleads.

  “Nine, eight, seven …”

  “I’m beggin’ you.”

  “Six, five, four …”

  She slowly gets to her feet.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Jan barks. “You can’t do this to her.”

  The words form in my mind. Cruel, callous words but I’ve no choice.

  “Yes, I can, and if you give her as much as a penny I guarantee it’ll be over between us.”

  The situation goes from awful to hideous. Two women — both shocked — glare at me with moist eyes.

  “Goodbye, Gwen,” I growl. “Go home to your husband, and remember your wedding vows. Till death do you part — no excuses.”

  Gwen snatches her suitcase from the floor.

  “Fine,” she cries. “Looks like I ain’t got no choice. Thanks for nothin’.”

  With tears streaming, she makes for the door.

  “Toby, please,” Jan begs.

  “Let her go.”

  Jan steps aside and a distraught Gwen flees the caravan.

  The ensuing silence is every bit as painful as the journey here. But, as much as I’d love to pretend the last twenty minutes never happened, I need to concoct a plausible explanation for my behaviour.

  “Come and sit down,” I say to Jan, in the softest tone I can muster.

  She stands resolute; her arms folded.

  “Please.”

  “Sit down with who exactly? The Toby I thought I knew, or the horrid creature who just sent that woman back to a violent husband?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “You’ve changed your tune. What happened to the man so principled he was prepared to take a beating to help?”

  “Please, Jan. Sit down and I’ll explain.”

  We reach a stand-off. I’m grateful for the delay while I formulate what lies I’m about to spin.

  Jan finally relents and stomps over to the table. Her body language doesn’t bode well.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  I hate lying to Jan but not as much as I hate seeing her upset. If she only knew the sacrifice I’ve just made — by sending Gwen back to Vernon, I’ve given up the chance to return to my previous life.

  “Vernon has been making threats again.”

  “He’s what?”

  “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to worry you, but he turned up here again last week. He made it clear he’d hurt you if I interfered in his marriage.”

  Different woman, same seat, same ashen face.

  “Oh, my,” she gasps. “I had no idea.”

  “And that’s how I wanted it to stay. I could have told your dad but I was concerned he’d go after Vernon and kill him. I didn’t want George to land himself in trouble with the police for a problem he didn’t create. And I certainly didn’t want you to be worrying about it either.”

  “So, you sent Gwen away to protect me?”

  “Of course. If Vernon discovered we’d helped her, I dread to think what he might do. I know it seemed harsh but it boiled down to a binary choice of protecting you or Gwen, and there’s no contest — I would choose you over anyone.”

  Although Jan doesn’t know it, I just have.

  The tension eases as she reaches across the table and clasps my hand.

  “I’m so sorry. I had no idea why you were behaving like that but now … I’m … I thought I couldn’t love you any more, but …”

  She leans over and shows me just how much she loves me with a gentle, lingering kiss.

  Our lips eventually part, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Too soon, as it transpires.

  “Isn’t there something else we can do to help Gwen? I feel dreadful; knowing what she’s going home to.”

  “I don’t like it much either, but Vernon made it clear what he’d do if I interfered.”

  “I know, but I just feel so helpless.”

  “Maybe I can have a word with Father O’Connor and ask him to intervene. There can’t be that many people with the surname Kirby living in Birchett Road.”

  “That’s a great idea. Even that … what’s the word you use for a horrid person?”

  “Twanker?”

  “That’s the one. Even that twanker wouldn’t try to beat up a priest. At the very least, Father O’Connor might be able to find somewhere for Gwen to stay.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  I might, but only to tell him not to interfere. It is imperative the Kirby’s continue their dysfunctional marriage for the foreseeable. By my reckoning, if Vernon’s life continues on a path which steers him away from joining the army, he’ll never receive that recommendation from his commanding officer for the groundsman’s job at Selborne Manor and he’ll never inherit that bloody radio; ergo, I’ll never use it in the future, and my place here will be cemented.

  Who knew time travel could be so complicated.

  Jan offers to speak to her parents and explain Gwen’s visit. I concur it might be a good idea and she leaves me alone in the caravan.

  The immediate sense of relief is palpable but then self-doubt launches a whispering campaign — a niggling voice in my ear asking repeatedly if I’ve taken the right path. Have I condemned myself to a life which isn’t mine to lead, or liberated myself from a life I didn’t much like? I ponder that conundrum until I reach a conclusion: it doesn’t matter one way or another.

  Whether I lead it here or in the future, I need to be in the driver’s seat rather than sit idle as a passenger watching the world drift by. Here, I can no longer blame my parent’s generation for my woes — there are no excuses, but there are opportunities. I have to be proactive which means grasping those opportunities when they come along and holding myself to account whatever the outcome. If I’ve learnt anything over the last ninety-four days, it’s that there is no better or worse time to be alive — every generation has its challenges, and in every generation there are winners and losers. All you can do is make the best of the hand you’re dealt; rather than blame the dealer.

  Jan is my future, and I intend to be a winner.

  Introspection complete, and in order to distract my mind from revisiting questions I’ve already answered, I turn the radio on. The device has become a true friend; the voices emanating from the feeble speaker now familiar and comforting.

  The voice on this occasion is Alan Freeman as I catch the start of Pick of the Pops on Radio One.

  I have to admit I’ve grown particularly partial to Freeman’s energetic style, and the eclectic music he presides over. In any given week, the charts can feature classic crooners like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin; rock and roll from the likes of The Beatles, The Rolling
Stones, and Elvis Presley; and soulful tunes from future legends like Marvin Gaye or Stevie Wonder. Throw in a bit of Johnny Cash, Fleetwood Mac, and the oddly-named Engelbert Humperdinck, and Pick of the Pops makes for an entertaining way to waste a few hours.

  I flop down on the bed and close my eyes while Bob Dylan performs Lay Lady Lay.

  There’s nothing like a long walk and a sense of relieved contentment to encourage a nap. Just as I start to drift off, Jan returns.

  “Oi, sleepyhead.”

  I sit up and squint.

  “Uh, oh. Sorry. Must have nodded off.”

  “Are you coming inside? We’re having tea soon.”

  “Sure.”

  She returns a smile and makes for the door.

  “Wait a sec,” I call back. “Come here.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to tell you something.”

  She steps across to the bed.

  “I want to thank you,” I say, taking her hand.

  “Thank me? For what?”

  “For being my future.”

  I pull her down beside me. As we lay with our arms wrapped around one another, there can be no doubt I’ve made the right decision.

  As tempting as it is, we can’t stay where we are forever and Jan eventually beats a retreat back to the house to help Alice with tea. I freshen up and head in five minutes later.

  “Good timing,” Jan chirps, as I arrive in the kitchen. “We’re just about to serve up.”

  Unlike the rest of the week, Sunday tea is an informal affair of sandwiches followed by a slice or two of homemade cake eaten in front of the television. Little do my hosts know this once-a-week treat will become the norm in a few decades time, with dining rooms becoming obsolete.

  Jan passes me a plate containing four perfectly triangular sandwiches.

  “Tinned salmon and cucumber,” she confirms.

  “Lovely.”

  We all convene in the lounge and George switches the television over to BBC One where an adaptation of Charles Dickens’ Dombey and Son is about to start. I like Sunday tea, and this particular Sunday more than any other — the sandwiches are delicious, the mood jovial, and even the Dickens play is vaguely entertaining.

  Once we've polished off the sandwiches, Alice disappears to the kitchen and returns with an iced fruit cake. We’re all handed a generous slice and it proves every bit as moreish as the young woman seated on the sofa next to me. Finally, and predictably, we round off with a nice cup of tea.